Of Kings and Things

by Eric Stanislaus Stenbock

  “He looked out of place in that old tavern, consuming stewed cheese flanked by triangles of toast and drinking old ale. Stimulated by these refreshments, he talked about a book he intended to publish, Studies of Death, and then about the inappropriate subject of death itself. ‘Death,’ said he, ‘is a dirty doorway to a wonderful region where there will be no London fogs and none of the evil that trouble the poets and artists here.’ My last impression was of him standing there on the railway platform, hat off, his flaxen curls looking almost white in the staring arc lamps of the great railway station at Kings Cross”.

  In a later account, he poignantly adds that Stenbock was “waving a yellow silk scarf on the platform in farewell.”

  Eric died on 26 April 1895 at his home, Withdeane Hall near Brighton. It was said that, in a drunken rage, he had tried to attack someone with a fire-poker—perhaps the housemaid of whom Eric said, according to Yeats’ account of their dinner, “How I hate her, how I hate that woman.” At the family seat in Estonia, Count Michel Stenbock (to whom Eric had given Kolga after returning to London) had a vision, whilst a storm raged outside, of Eric's face appearing at his window, weeping and in great distress. His vision was accompanied by a sense of great despair. The following morning, a telegram came to Kolga with news of Eric's death.

  On the death certificate his name is now written Eric Stanislaus Magnus Andreas Harry Stenbock. His causes of death were listed as hepatic cirrhosis, ascites (“dropsy”—a symptom commonly associated with cirrhosis of the liver), and asthenia. He was buried on 1 May, “in the presence of a large number of relatives and friends.”

  His gravestone in the Catholic Cemetery in Brighton, East Sussex, gives his name as “Erik, Count Stenbock: (Harry)”, and the date of, and his age at, his death, “April 1895, Aged 35” below his name. It is said that his heart was extracted and sent to the church at Kusal, Estonia, where the Stenbock family's graves are to be found. I went to Kusal many years ago and looked into the cupboard in which the heart was said to be kept in a glass urn. I only saw a metal urn which I believe to hold the heart of Eric's father, Erik. The last time I visited Eric's grave in Brighton, the cross which was his headstone had tilted to one side. Later photographs sent to me show it in a sadder condition, with the headstone completely collapsed. Perhaps it is raised now.

  Every day, when I write at my desk, I see a drawing that I own, by Eric, that hangs on the wall to my right. It is a striking image, and Stenbock's title on it is equally striking: “Pre-adamite elephant adoring sunflower”. Touching, sweet, bizarre, childlike, unclassifiable, the drawing is like Stenbock himself, something odd and out of time. Eric remains an enigma; yet he was a man who suffered greatly and gave much joy to many. He catches my eye still, pulls my heart with him still, just as he did when I first heard his name. Wherever Eric is now, I hope he is still sending his poems forth, fastened as close as death to the tails of coloured balloons, and gazes at them falling softly, like stars.

  When I first encountered Count Eric Stenbock, he seemed to me to be a ghost. But every small reach we make towards a ghost fetches her or him closer to us. I hope I have unghosted him a little in this brief introduction, and shown why he is rightly honoured as the most decadent of the decadents.

  David Tibet, Anniversary of the Martyrdom of St. Athanasius, 4 IX 2018, Hastings

  Stenbock photographed in St. Petersburg by Frederick Hollyer.

  I was intending to paint a picture of David as the Shepherd, but nowhere could I find a suitable model for the face; there were several ‘white and ruddy,’ but none which had on them the impress of the born King, or the inspiration of the Psalmist. One day I was rowing up the river, and came across the very face I had been seeking for so long. He was a boy of about fifteen, clad in flannels, alone in a boat which he had moored to the shore of a little island in the middle of the river; he was occupied in sketching. ‘This is lucky,’ I thought, ‘it will be a good excuse to begin a conversation,’ so I rowed up to him, and saying that I was an artist, asked to see what he was drawing; he blushed, and showed me. Of course I had expected the usual smudged landscape; but imagine my surprise to find a certainly beautifully conceived drawing of Hylas by the river's brink, with the Nymph stretching out her arms towards him. He was merely copying the rushes and trees of the island as a background. The Hylas was not at all a bad portrait of himself, but my surprise was still greater to find that the face of the Nymph was an evident copy of my own last picture called ‘The Siren,’ which I had recently sold to a certain Professor Langton (at a very low price, as I knew the Professor was not well off, and his genuine enthusiasm for my work was so refreshing after the inane compliments of those who thought it the ‘thing’ to admire me because I happened to be the ‘fashion’ just then). I praised the drawing, and pointed out one or two faults, then asked for paper and pencil, and reproduced the drawing as it should have been. The boy watched with ever-increasing eagerness; at last he said with a deep blush, ‘May I ask you what your name is?’

  ‘My name is Gabriel Glynde,’ I replied.

  ‘Ah, I thought so all the time you were drawing. Do you know, your pictures have always had a peculiar fascination for me; father has lots of them, at least drawings, only one painting, that one called “The Siren,” from which I copied that: you must know father, he went to see your studio the other day;’ then, blushing still deeper, ‘May I come and see your studio too?’

  ‘Certainly you may; but I ask something in return: that is, that you will sit as model for the “shepherd David.” I guess from what you say that you are the son of Professor Langton; am I not right? May I ask what is your Christian name?’

  ‘Oh, Lionel,’ he said simply; ‘there's only father and me; I don't mind being a model if you like, and will let me see your studio, though why you should think I should make a suitable David I am at a loss to understand.’

  There was a mixture of simple boyishness, and at the same time education, about his way of talking which puzzled me, but the explanation was not difficult to unravel. We rowed down together: I took him to tea at an old wayside inn covered with honeysuckle, then went straight with him to his father's. He had told me all about himself on the way. He was his father's only son, he had never been to school, his father had taught him everything himself, he had no companions of his own age, and amused himself alone. He liked riding and rowing and swimming, but hated shooting and fishing (curious this, that he should share my own ingrained dislikes), but what he loved above all was drawing and painting; he had never learnt to draw, but he had always drawn ever since he could remember. His father knew everything, but could not draw, but was very fond of pictures, but nevertheless would not let him go to an art school, etc. So he prattled on. I could not help remarking that he seemed very much more educated than boys of his age usually are, though wholly unconscious of the fact, and yet, at the same time, showed a singular artlessness and innocence about the most common-place things.

  Professor Langton received me with the utmost amiability, and the end of it was that I stayed there the evening. After he had sent his son to bed, he expounded to me his ideas on education. He did not approve of schools of any kind, he said; boarding schools were an abomination, but day schools, perhaps, were a necessity. ‘But in my case,’ he said, ‘happily not; indeed, what is the use of being a Professor if I cannot instruct my own boy?’

  Well, the end of all this was, that having Lionel as a model, I took a great fancy to him, and the more I saw of him the less I liked the idea of his going to an Academy school. Perhaps to a boy ordinarily brought up the usual conversation of art students would not do much harm, but to Lionel—this exotic flower—I shuddered to think of it. I never before had had any pupils, wishing to be individual, and not to create a school, but then Lionel was of my school already. So the end of it was that I offered to take him as a gratuitous and exclusive pupil, for which his father was intensely grateful.

  Years passed by, and I taught him to draw and paint very we
ll; perhaps I impregnated him a little too much with my own individuality. I used to chuckle to myself, ‘This is just like Leonardo da Vinci and Salaino. Critics in the future will be disputing which is a genuine “Glindio.”’ I do not mean by this that Lionel had no imagination or inventive power—on the contrary, he was, as I have said before, a ‘genius,’ an artist, born, not made—but merely that his style of execution was based on mine; indeed, I even hoped that he might surpass in my own line.

  One does not realise what a frightful responsibility one incurs in introducing one person to another. In nine cases out of ten nothing particular may ensue, but the tenth case may be the turning-point in a life for good or for evil. Thus it was when I introduced Lionel to Lady Julia Gore Vere. When I say I introduced him, I did nothing of the kind; she was having tea with me in my studio, and Lionel, who I thought was going up the river that day (that was one of the reasons I had selected that day to ask her), suddenly walked in. Well! what could I do but introduce them.

  Lady Julia bore the name Gore Vere because she had two husbands, both alive and kicking, and through some anomaly of the Divorce Court, she could not legally ascertain whether she ought to bear the name of Mr. Gore or Mr. Vere, so she split the difference by giving herself both appellations. What her past was I did not know, and did not care to inquire—it was no concern of mine; what did concern me was that she bought my pictures. She was certainly the last person I should have liked Lionel to meet. She was a very lovely woman and very clever (when I say clever I do not merely mean sharp and witty, but really cultured), and when she talked about Art she really knew what she was talking about. Except for a moment of irritation, I did not see any particular harm. Lionel knew nothing about her; there was nothing remarkable in the fact that she took an interest in him; and he took a childish pleasure in showing her his sketches, which she criticised and admired, justly, for, as I have said before, they were remarkably good.

  I had always thought of Lionel as a child, and never realised that he was now grown up. Happening to know Lady Julia's age, it did not occur to me that to people in general she looked a very great deal younger than she really was. Well, they met several times. One day Lionel said, ‘How like Lady Julia is to your picture “The Siren.”’ I have always maintained that artists give models for faces, as much as faces give models for artists. I had done so many pictures since, I had quite forgotten about ‘The Siren.’ Now ‘The Siren’ was entirely an imaginative face, taken from no model at all, but when Lionel said so, it struck me she was like ‘The Siren.’ Then I thought of his drawing the first day I had met him. A disagreeable sensation and vague fear haunted me; I took to watch him more closely. Then the truth flashed upon me—he was hopelessly in love with her. She was doing her best to egg him on; what an idiot I was not to have seen that before, I who pretend to be observant of all things.

  No, this would not do at all, it would be the ruin of his life. I must save him at any cost. Perhaps I had been wrong all the time, I had kept him too much under a glass case; perhaps if he had had more experience he would not have become so suddenly and completely infatuated. Oh, how wicked of her! I raged and gnashed my teeth. Had she not the whole world for prey that she could not spare this poor boy? What could he be to her? But then, perhaps, she did not realise what harm she was doing. I would go and expostulate with her myself; from what I knew of her she was by no means heartless.

  So next day I called on her, and somewhat rudely came to the point at once. ‘Why,’ I said, ‘do you ruin that poor boy's life? You know whom I mean—Lionel. Surely such a conquest must be nothing to you?’

  I spoke very bitterly, she answered calmly, ‘You ask me why? I will tell you the reason quite simply: first, because I am jealous of him; secondly, because I thought you cared for me a little, and I thought I might make you jealous of me, and finally, because I love you.’

  I was utterly dumfounded; for some time I could not speak at all. Then I said, ‘If it is true, as you say, that you love me, do at least this one thing for me—spare him.’ She answered in the same calm voice. ‘There is one way to overcome the difficulty.’ I went out without a word.

  All that night I remained without sleep, thinking. ‘There was one way to overcome the difficulty.’ I had said I would save him at any cost, and the cost was to sacrifice myself. However unselfish one's motive may be, selfish considerations are inevitably intermingled. I thought, after all, the sacrifice is not so very terrible, the way out of the difficulty comparatively easy—I certainly liked her well enough, and now that my studio parties were on a much larger scale than heretofore, it would really be a great convenience to have a lady in the house. And then I thought, trying to be unselfish again, I shall be doing a good turn to her; by giving her my name I shall re-establish her reputation, and people will soon forget that her name has ever been Gore or Vere… Lionel would soon realise the absurdity of his own position, and of course would not think of making love to my wife.

  So next morning I wrote to Lady Julia, asking her if she would be willing to exchange the ambiguous name of Gore-Vere for that of Glynde. She wrote back to say she would be very pleased to accept my offer, but she thought I might have phrased it more kindly.

  Fortunately Lionel was going away the next day on a walking tour by himself (a thing which he was very fond of doing), for I could not bring myself to tell Lionel about it just yet, or indeed till the whole thing was over. There was no reason whatever for delay, so we arranged to be married quietly in Paris before a Maire, as, for obvious reasons, it would be better not to be married in London. When the marriage was over I made up my mind to write to Lionel. I tore up several letters in various styles; at last I resolved to adopt the flippantly facetious. I said, ‘I am now in Paris, and who do you think is my companion? You will never guess—Lady Julia Gore-Vere, only her name isn't Gore-Vere now, but Glynde, because I have married her; but it won't make any difference, you must call her Lady Julia all the same.’

  To this letter there was no response; to this I attached but little importance. ‘Of course,’ I thought, ‘he will be a little sulky at first, but he will soon get over it; his innate sense of humour will show him how foolish he has been.’

  In spite of all people might say against my wife, there could be no more charming travelling companion, always amusing and amused, and intelligently critical; indeed, if I had not always had the haunting thought of Lionel, I think we should have enjoyed ourselves very much.

  Will you understand me if I say that I was sorry to find out my wife's past was by no means as black as it was painted; indeed, she was much more wronged than the wrongdoer. This, I suppose, is inverted selfishness; it is a luxury to pose as a hero. What was my heroic self-sacrifice? Simply getting a charming wife, who really loved me, and who had never loved anyone else before. I wrote to Lionel once more—a long, lively letter describing the places we had been to, interspersed with graphic sketches of persons and places. To this again I received no answer. But then as I had addressed it to the last country place where I knew Lionel had been staying, I came to the conclusion he could not have received it, possibly having left no address behind him.

  At last we came home; I learned that Lionel was staying with his father. I sent a note, saying: ‘I insist on seeing you. Come this evening. Waiting for an answer.’

  There was no answer; but in the evening Lionel came in person.

  Lionel, I say? Could this be Lionel? He was utterly changed. All youth and buoyancy had gone from him; he rather dragged himself along than walked; he was quite pale, and wore a look of utter, absolute dejection. I tried to pretend to take no notice.

  ‘Well, Lionel’ I said, with sham cheerfulness, ‘what have you been doing all this time?’ He answered in a dull, apathetic voice, ‘Painting a picture.’

  ‘A picture? What about?’

  ‘You will get it the day after to-morrow,’ he said in the same dull monotone.

  ‘Child, what has come over you? Why do you keep aloof fro
m me? Why did you not answer my letters?’

  ‘I think it is somewhat needless for you to ask that question,’ he said.

  ‘No, but tell me—explain,’ I cried, stretching out my hands to him. He went backwards to the other end of the room, and then said in a voice filled with tears, ‘You have taken from me all that I loved; I should not have thought that of you. Of course, you had a perfect right to do so, but still, at least, you might have told me first.’

  ‘All that you loved?’ I said.

  ‘Yes! All except yourself, and you have killed my love for you,’ he said, almost with a wail.

  ‘But, Lionel, listen; I do not love her.’

  ‘Do you consider that an excuse?’ he said fiercely; ‘if you did I might forgive you; but as it is I cannot.’

  ‘But listen, child,’ I cried; ‘hear me out; it is not her that I love but you; it was to save you from what I thought would be your utter ruin that I married her.’

  ‘A strange way of showing love to break my heart,’ he said in the same spiritless voice as before; ‘Good-bye,’ and then he turned his back on me, and held out his left hand—it was quite cold, and fell limp to his side; he turned once round as he opened the door with a look of mute reproach which will haunt me for ever.

  The day after the morrow I took up the morning paper, and saw this:

  SHOCKING ACCIDENT WHILE BATHING

  ‘Near —— Island [the island where I first met Lionel], the body of a young man was found yesterday. There was little difficulty in identifying the body as that of Mr. Lionel Langton, a young artist of much promise, as his clothes were on the shore, and a pocket-book containing cards and letters was in the coat pocket, and also as Mr. Langton was well known in this neighbourhood, being particularly fond of bathing at this spot. The fact of his being drowned has caused much astonishment, as he was known to be a remarkably good swimmer. Death was attributed to sudden cramp. His father, Professor Langton, was immediately telegraphed for, and seemed quite overcome with grief. He deposed that lately he had been much distressed about his son; he had been unwell and very depressed, also strange in his manner, for which he, his father, could assign no cause.’